Two By One
by playergurl89
Summary: True love can withstand the test of time and, sometimes, even opposition from one's own mind. Spoilers are free game, as they generally are with anything I write.
1. Silently Speaking

**A/N: Another new story. Mostly to cheer up my muse in the wake of hearing Flashpoint will end after this coming season. I needed a love story that was different from the other stuff I currently have in the works, so it's more for my enjoyment than anything else, although I hope you guys enjoy it as well.**

**Silently Speaking**

I sit in a comfortably padded wicker chair, staring out the salon window as the sun comes up as I hug my worn, but never torn, notebook to my chest. I'm dressed in layers upon layers of clothing not simply because the morning air held its usual additional chill, the care facility has good central heating, but because I'm old. Same reason as anybody else here. You see, I'm not anything special. I was never a world leader. I was never rich. I was never a celebrity. I obviously never found the secret to immortal youth. No, I'm just a simple man who, by the grace of God, has lived to the ripe old age of eighty-one.

You know what's funny? I haven't always been much of a believer in God. I've seen so much pain, heartache, and fear in my many years on this earth that I didn't _want _to believe there was some all-powerful being who let all that go on, who let people kill each other in his name. Now, I confess, there's a personal, selfish reason I changed my views. Like I said, I'm not anything special. Nobody changes their view without there being something in it for him or her. So, you're probably wondering what's in it for me, right now. Hope. Hope for one of those good days that seem to be getting shorter and further spaced apart. The good days when the chill that clings to my bones is all but forgotten. The good days when my once-sharp, now-failing eyesight might be more worthy of a young sniper than a simple old man such as myself. The good days when the sun shines just a little brighter, even if it's hidden above the clouds. The good days that science and everyone around me has insisted for about the last ten years would cease. The good days that have yet to cease in occurrence.

It is in the hope of having one of those good days that I push past the arthritis in what sometimes feels like all of my joints in order to rise from my chair and shuffle out of the salon. Most of the facility's residents are still tucked away in their rooms, so the halls are devoid of people besides a few staff members. I exchange familiar greetings with these familiar people, ask and answer familiar questions about family. About children and grandchildren. I shuffle on with the familiar sensation that they are about to start speculating about whether or not I'm going to have a good day today.

I now arrive at the room I seek and find a visage as familiar as the path I took from the salon to the room. She is already awake, sitting in one of the chairs that sits in front of her window, looking out at the same scene I was just moments ago taking in myself. Now, I take a minute to absorb her beauty through my eyes. To thank God I'm still live to do so. To thank God she's alive for me to do so.

Her image now properly etched on my brain, I enter the room and settle myself into the second chair in front of her window. I say, "Good morning." She doesn't look at me or give any acknowledgement that she hears my voice. I'm not discouraged. She rarely acknowledges my presence first thing in the morning anymore.

My stiff, arthritic fingers have an easier time of setting my glasses on my face than they do opening the notebook. Sometimes, I think it's because the notebook is almost as old as I am and just as fragile. Other times, I think it's because the book is just so damn precious to me that my brain is telling my hands to go gentle without my mind knowing it. I like to think the latter. I think it's closer to the truth. Especially considering the notebook isn't even half my age.

The book is sitting open in my lap. My glasses are settled on my face making the words on the current page sharp enough for reading. She is sitting before me, silently staring out the window, giving no indication that she is listening to a word I say. I begin to read anyway, as I always do, and I hope she hears me. I hope she hears the story of two told by one.

******This is kind of a teaser. A prologue if you will. The real storytelling will begin with tomorrow's update. Why will there be an update tomorrow? Because I would feel weird posting something today, but not tomorrow when I got used to updating Crossing the Divide on Fridays.**


	2. Exceptionally Unexceptional

**A/N: Obviously, I couldn't get this up last week as promised. A family emergency threw off that whole weekend. All's well now, though. Enjoy the chapter.**

Julianna 'Jules' Callaghan was a force of nature. The funny thing was, you couldn't tell just by looking at her. Her height was mostly to blame for that. She was all of five-two. She was in great shape, but in such a way that made her curves seem just that much more feminine; you wouldn't guess she could drag a man nearly twice her weight across the room with no hesitation. But if you looked into her eyes? Her eyes told you everything you needed to know about her, even when they hid everything she was feeling. You could see her kindness and compassion. Her stubborn determination and gentle warmth. You could see her very soul. But only if she let you.

As she stood alone, apart from the others gathered on the overpass above that special stretch of Highway 401 that mild summer evening as the sun set, Jules had taken the extra protective step of shielding her eyes behind sunglasses. Her mouth was set in a firm line and her facial muscles were motionless, outwardly expressing no emotion whatsoever as she waited for the convoy to appear along what's known as The Highway of Heroes.

Sam Braddock recognized her in an instant. His heart beat a little faster. His abdominal muscles contracted. His hands feel cold and clammy. And all he'd seen was the back of her head. That was all he needed to see to make a positive identification. The clues were there in the familiar form he knew by touch equally as well as by sight, in the quiet dignity with which she carried herself, and in the way her very presence could impact him.

He swallowed past the discomfort of his suddenly dry mouth and fought against the urge to turn around and leave. He wasn't ready for this. As badly as he had missed her, he was scared to death to face her after all this time. He didn't know what to expect from her, but as long as she didn't know he was home, he could pretend she was still waiting for him even though he'd given her no reason to. There was no way she could have known how deeply he regretted that fateful decision he'd made in anger nearly four years previously…

* * *

Sam woke to find Jules lying on top of him, staring at him contemplatively with her chin resting atop hands she had stacked on his chest. Slightly disconcerted by her intense scrutiny, he muttered a wary, sleep-thickened, "Hey."

"Hey," she responded softly, dragging her hands away from his chest only to slide them under him while she turned her head so her ear was resting against his chest, presumably listening to his heartbeat while conveniently avoiding his gaze.

She didn't seem to be in any hurry to get out of bed that morning, which was fine by him. They had time before they were expected at work. Time to simply be together. Because she seemed to need that time that morning, he simply looped his arms around her and held her without speaking. He figured she'd eventually initiate conversation.

After a while, he asked, "What are you thinking about?" As curious as he was, his reason for posing the question was two-fold. He also wanted to make sure Jules hadn't drifted off back to sleep.

"The big picture. _My _big picture," she clarified.

"Okay. I'm in it, right?" he teased lightly, earning himself a light pinch on the toned flesh of his backside in response. "Okay, seriously. Tell me about this big picture you're brooding about."

"I don't brood."

He could hear the frown in her voice, and knew she could probably feel the laugh he was struggling to hold back rumbling through his body as a direct result of her response. He played with her hair, gently twirling the silky strands with his fingers in a silent bid for her forgiveness of his teasing.

"I was just thinking we could be so much closer to whatever that big picture's gonna turn out to be right now if we were different people. If I wasn't…"

"Well, you can stop right there," Sam interrupted, "because I wouldn't have given you a second glance if you were any less of a person that you are. I have pretty high standards."

Jules scoffed. "Not from what I heard."

"When it comes to who I love, yeah, I do," he countered. "Right here, at this point in my life, there's no place I'd rather be. _We _are my big picture."

"But what about…?"

"Icing on the cake," he assured her. He was actually hoping to start frosting that cake any day now. He was just waiting for the right moment, just as he'd waited until he'd laid eyes on just the right ring before buying it. Finding the perfect ring hadn't been any easier than finding the perfect moment was turning out to be. His options often seemed too gaudy or too simple. It had almost gotten to the point where he was considering letting her pick her own ring.

In the end, he'd found himself drawn to an antique shop he'd cruised by while patrolling earlier in the day. He'd made the after-shift excursion because he'd spotted a Betamax player in the storefront window and thought Spike might get a kick out of it as a gag birthday present. The ring had winked at him from inside the glass counter as he'd paid for the technological relic and he'd bought it without a second that. It was just _that_ perfect. Almost as perfect as moments like these when he was simply lying with Jules as though they were the only two people left in existence and happy to share that distinction.

Then it hit him that _this _was the perfect moment to ask. Now, while she was thinking about their shared future. Now was the time to show her how committed her was to that future. "Jules?" he said as he stretched his arm out so he could awkwardly twist his arm to tug open the drawer in the nightstand on his side of the bed.

She lifted her head and turned it so she could look at him. "What?"

As he blindly felt for the velvet box he placed there as he did every night after every day of imperfect moments, or every night that he spent at _her_ place, both of their PDA's buzzed. He groaned when she gave him one of those goofy little smiles she tended to give him when a mutually recognized 'moment' between them was unceremoniously interrupted. If she'd been observing rather than experiencing that moment, she probably would have said 'awww'.

She slid off him and grabbed some clothes on her way into the bathroom as he switched targets and grabbed the PDA sitting atop the nightstand instead. When he saw the interruption was due to the team being upped early to relieve Team 4, he growled in vexation. They were probably just going to end up going in and hitting the gym early. That could have waited another twenty minutes. He might have even accepted _ten_. Enough time for him to ask, for her to accept, and for them both to bask in the glow of all that was to come.

Brushing his annoyance aside, he rolled out of bed and padded barefoot over to the dresser he'd long since claimed drawers in, pulled out some clean clothes, and dressed with the speed borne of time spent in an army boot camp. Jules emerged from the bathroom dressed only scant seconds later. He remembered that she'd once attributed the speed at which _she _could dress to growing up in a house with four brothers. The same four brothers she never seemed inclined to discuss in-depth. He couldn't say he blamed her. He didn't like talking about his family either. Didn't stop him from wondering, though.

"It's gonna be a long day," Jules remarked as she reached for her bag. If they'd known how prophetic those words were, they would have gotten back in the bed right then and called in sick. Maybe they would have slept through it. Maybe they would've made love until sundown. No matter what they'd ended up doing, they would have been together.

* * *

He'd swear to anyone who'd listen, swear on his dead sister's grave, he knew the very instant she sensed his presence. He would use that exact term, too. She _sensed _it. There was no other explanation for the sudden change in her posture. Her shoulders dropped slightly, as though bracing themselves for a little less weight than they had had to carry a moment ago. Her spine lengthened. Her chin came up ever so slightly. Her right hand came up and he could picture it covering her nose and mouth in that endearing gesture she always used to make in a poor attempt to disguise how emotional she was getting. The happy kind of emotional she sometimes worried would make her seem too girly in front of the guys. The guys who, truth be told, cared a lot less about her 'girly moments' than she did.

His head was telling his body to move, but it was as though his feet had suddenly sprouted roots. They were seemingly incapable of carrying him away from the spot in which he stood, even if the action would have aided him in self-preservation. That was how much willpower he had in the face of Jules Callaghan. Whatever was in his own best interests had a tendency to fall by the wayside in favor of indulging in the fulfillment of desires that primarily had to do with her.

All he could do was stand there, frozen in place as she turned, just as the procession came into view, to look at him from behind those impenetrable black lenses. The moment his name dropped from her lips, he was alive again. Or, at least, the fact that he was alive was verified in his mind. He was really standing there. _She _was really standing there. That was the important thing. That _she _was there. Because home was where the heart was and he'd been without her for three years, ten months, and twenty-seven days. He'd been walking around without a heart for three years, seven months, and twenty-seven days. And now…

"Sam."

**A/N: Yes, I left it there. Get used to it with this story lol. Anyway, thanks for reading! Ne****xt on the to-do list is the Sequel to Crossing the Divide, so keep an eye out for that!**


	3. Impossibly Possible

**A/N: First and foremost, I must thank Trish, a.k.a. Tirsh, for helping me with my research, as I forgot to do so last chapter. _You _can all thank her for this chapter being up now instead of later tonight. Thanks for reading and (hopefully) enjoying.**

She always told herself she did it for him. It was an excuse that worked well enough to explain away her periodic excursions to the highway to observe the procession along the Highway of Heroes without too much self-evaluation. She hated evaluating her own motives for doing things. More often than not, her actions were straightforward. She watered the plant in the living room window because it needed water to survive. That was straightforward. Why she still had that plant, the only plant to whose care she had committed herself to, was not.

She should have dumped it out when she was discharged from the hospital. She had neither the time nor the interest for gardening. Except, she had had the time. For a few months, she'd had too _much_ time. Time she couldn't spend doing the things she wanted to do, but time in which she _could_ garden. If you could even call one measly plant that ended up thriving for over 7 years a garden. She humbly liked to think of it as her pride and joy. For roughly half its life, the plant that had convinced Jules she had a green thumb had borne around its stalk a yellow ribbon tied with a meticulously perfect bow. That, too, was for him.

Her pride in her horticultural accomplishment tended to overshadow the fact that the plant had been a gift from him. From Sam. The man who had effectively set the course of her life in ways nobody else ever had before or since. The man who was standing in front of her looking so solid, so real, she was half convinced she was dreaming. It wouldn't have been the first time. She could recall many a night during which she'd awakened to a sense of bitter disappointment. Nights when she'd had to pinch herself to verify that she hadn't stirred from a dream within a dream and that he was really gone.

Sometimes she managed to convince herself he was dead. Those were the nights her melancholy thoughts drifted into the land of regrets. The land of missed opportunities and lost happiness. Where the dreams she and Sam had shared resided on Fool's Lane. It was appropriate. She'd been foolish in the decision she'd made nearly four years ago.

The nights that were easiest to get through were the ones where she remembered that the acronym 'M.I.A.' didn't hold the same meaning as 'K.I.A.' and that he could still be out there somewhere. He could still be alive. Those were the dark nights when she felt like she could go on not because she had to, but because she wanted to. She wanted to be in a world where Sam Braddock existed. She'd even worked out what she'd say if she ever saw him again. Unfortunately, all her carefully tailored words abandoned her in the face of the reunion she'd all but given up hope would ever take place.

His face seemed softer to her than she remembered. Younger. Somewhat unsure of himself. Then she tugged off her sunglasses and rubbed her eyes, clearing them of unshed tears. Now he looked harder. Older. The current visage seemed more appropriate, although the uncertainty in his face remained.

Where words seemed to fail her, her body seemed to move automatically to fulfill its need to physically confirm the visual evidence of his presence. Her feet carried her forward to stand directly before him. Her arms looped around his neck. Her ear sought out and found his heartbeat. His arms slowly snaked around her, effectively sealing out the rest of the world as he encompassed her in warmth. Jules decided right then and there that, dreaming or not, hallucinating or not, this was her new reality. One in which Sam wasn't just alive somewhere in the world, but alive and there with her. In her arms. Safe.

But where had he been since she last heard anything about him three years, two months and seventeen days ago when her whole universe had tilted underneath her feet and never quite righted itself?

* * *

"Hey, Nat, why the long face?" Jules asked as she stood back to let the blonde enter the house. Her description was an understatement. The other woman's face was almost ghost-white and Jules was fervently hoping the younger woman wouldn't faint because she would've been unable to catch her. "Sit down," she suggested for both their sakes as she gingerly moved to make room for them both to sit down. The sudden influx of gifts had outstripped both her ability and her desire to put them away as she received them, so she was waiting for one of the guys to come by and do it for her. Normally, Natalie might have offered to help her, but she was too distraught to care much about the mess.

"I spoke to my dad," Natalie revealed, her breath hitching on the words as though she was about to cry. Jules thought she looked as though she'd already been crying and was getting worried even before Natalie added the words that made her heart drop so far it ended up somewhere in the vicinity of the South Pacific. "About Sammy."

When she stopped speaking, Jules grasped her hands as though, by doing so, she could wring the rest of the story from her. She hadn't heard a word either from _or _about Sam since he'd left, which she took to mean that he wasn't talking to anybody. If he had spoken to anyone who mattered in the past several months, specifically, their teammates or his sister, he would have spoken to her. She had no doubt at all about that. She hated that when news finally reached her about him, it'd had to come from his father… Almost as much as she hated not being able to reach him herself. "Nat? Hey, are you with me? I need you to tell me what happened. What'd your dad say about Sam?"

"He said—he said Sam's missing in action, Jules."

"What? What do you mean missing in action? What happened? Nat—?"

"Jules, I don't _know_. I don't know what happened or where or how…I don't…he wouldn't tell me, I don't know! He said MPs came to the door and told Mom when he wasn't home and that he'd look into it, but, Jules, I don't think he'll tell me even if he does find out what happened."

"Well, why the hell not?" Jules shouted. She took a deep breath and reminded herself not to shoot the messenger. "I'm sorry, I just… The military police wouldn't say anything unless they knew something, right?"

"Maybe…probably not. Dad let slip that whatever Sam was doing when he disappeared was classified. God, Jules, I'm so scared right now. What if he's…?" She broke off, looking queasy as if thinking about saying the words put her in danger of vomiting.

"He's not. He's _not_, okay? Missing's not dead. He's not dead, Natalie. He's not—ah."

"Jules? Are you okay?" Natalie asked, looking as though she were a split second away from giving her mouth to mouth or something. She had a tendency to dramatize things on a good day. Today she was on hyper-alert for anything so much as a sneeze. She'd remain that way for the next two and a half months or so.

"It's just a kick," Jules muttered as she massaged her ribs. "We're okay." She had to believe that that 'we' included Sam. There was no way around it. She just had to. How was the world supposed to continue to exist if it didn't?

* * *

The knot in her chest continued to loosen even as she loosened her arms and allowed her hands to slide over his arms as they dropped down to her sides. "You're really here."

"I'm really here," he confirmed, even slower to release her than she had been him. "Jules…"

"Where were you? You left and I didn't… You just… How are you here? Nat would've told me—"

"She didn't know. _Doesn't_," he corrected himself. "Nobody here knows. I—"

"Nobody…? Sam, how long have you been back?" She took a step back, expressing her reproach with that single action. There were too many emotions flitting across her face for him to pick out just that one. She later listed every one for him, and it was as long a list as he'd supposed. Not all of the things on it made him smile.

"Not long, I just didn't want to make a big deal out of it. It's a long story and I…"

"No big deal? Sam, this is a _huge _deal. Do you have _any_ idea what it's been like for me? I come here and I see the families who get to say goodbye and be with other people who want to help honor the lives of the people _they_ loved, and I hate them a little because at least they _knew_. They knew the soldiers passing by were dead. They could say goodbye. They could stop hoping for the impossible. They could stop dreaming about miraculous reunions. They knew for sure that that world wouldn't end if their husbands, fathers, wives, mothers, sisters, brothers, _whatever_ died. They don't resent people they're supposed to love for not being you…" She turned away from him, hugging herself as though the warm air had suddenly taken on a chill.

Her words gave him hope. Maybe, despite how long it had been, despite the bad note on which they'd left things, just _maybe _she'd waited even when she shouldn't have. "I'm here, now, Jules. Can we go somewhere and talk? Please?"

For a long moment, she didn't speak. She had things to sort out in her mind first. Then she said, "Yeah." Her head bobbed in a brief nod as she slipped her sunglasses back onto her face, and then she was turning around to face him again. "We need to talk. Did you drive yourself?"

"Took a cab." He'd been surprised to find that he hadn't been legally declared dead in his absence, his assets dispersed, and wondered whom he had to thank for that. From what she'd said, maybe Jules.

"I'll drive, then," Jules said before brushing past him with the expectation he would fall into step behind her to an unfamiliar SUV.

He did exactly that, reaching for the handle of the passenger-side door as naturally as he would have the jeep she'd driven back when they'd drive in to work together. It was after he'd gotten the door open and gotten a good look at second row that his movements stuttered to an abrupt halt. He looked at Jules, who'd already climbed into the driver's seat. "Car seats, Jules?"

"Like I said, we need to talk. Get in, Sam."

**A/N: In case it isn't obvious, the flashbacks won't be in linear order. If you have any questions or need any clarifications, feel free to ask. Just know some questions, i.e. "What the hell happened three years, seven months, and twenty-seven days ago?" will go unanswered for the time being. All in good time, dear readers.**


	4. Illogically Logical

**A/N: No obvious flashback this chapter. Enough is shared in one timeline, in my opinion. Thanks for reading, hope you enjoy.**

* * *

The car ride lasted just long enough for all his hopes that their reunion would be a happy one to evaporate. It lasted long enough for him to notice the ring on her left hand. Long enough for him to wonder how old her kids were. Whether they looked more like her or their father. It lasted enough for him to wonder how quickly she'd moved on from him, blatantly invalidating everything they'd shared. And, yes, it lasted long enough for him to become bitter and resentful towards her and the life she'd built for herself in his absence. If she were anyone else, he might have even hated her. But she was Jules. No matter how deeply the emotional daggers she wielded cut into his soul, he couldn't hate her. He knew it was futile to try because he'd tried before and it didn't work out so well. Besides, who could claim someone as the love of his life and have any room left in his heart for hate for her?

His innate inability to hate her didn't preclude the ability of her presence to make him feel dead inside, though. The idea of her making love to another man, having another man's babies, not being _his_…it was enough to make him regret the fact that he was alive to see it. Especially when there was no good reason, at least not one he could think of, why she shouldn't be his. If that thought had occurred to him sooner, maybe she would be now. If he'd thought of it three years, seven months, and twenty-seven days ago, maybe things would be the way they _should_ be now. Or, at least, where he thought they should be.

Jules had removed her sunglasses because she couldn't justify hiding behind them under the darkening sky, but she had thankfully had driving as an excuse for not having to look at Sam's face while she sorted things out in her head. The glimpse she'd gotten as they'd climbed into the car had been bad enough. He'd looked at her as if she'd betrayed him. She felt as though she had. Logically, she shouldn't. Logically she knew that, no matter how badly she'd missed him, there was no room left in her life for him. Her heart, yes. Forever. But not her life, at least, not in the same capacity. Unfortunately, his staying gone for so long was only part of the reason for that.

Suddenly, she realized she had no clue where to go. She couldn't take him home with her. Not without explaining things to him first. The idea of talking things out over coffee repelled her; besides which, they hadn't gone on a coffee date since that fateful evening when she told him she loved him while she was breaking up with him. She still kicked herself for that, but that was the past. Now, she had to figure out where to take Sam. "Where are you staying?" she asked, finally.

He named the motel and then they once again fell into a heavy silence that seemed to leave little room in the confined space of the vehicle for oxygen.

She thought about telling him about the kids. Bianca and Ryan. He'd stop sitting there judging her and making her feel like she'd committed some crime against humanity then. There was a lot to tell, though, and she preferred not to be behind the wheel when she told him. There was also a lot she wanted to know. She didn't want to be behind the wheel when she heard that, either.

As she cut the engine in the motel parking lot, he asked quietly, "Why'd you say no?" His mind had strayed into the past and settled there. On the moment in time that had sent him into a tailspin that he had yet to fully break out of.

She heard him loud and clear, but she pretended she hadn't because she didn't think it was something they needed to get into right now. Maybe later. If she couldn't avoid it. She would have preferred to let sleeping dogs lie. "What room are you in?" she asked as she got out of the car, still determinedly not looking at him.

In lieu of telling her, he led her there. She took note of the room number while he unlocked the door for future reference, anyway. She was pretty sure she'd need it. At least until he found a more permanent dwelling. She hoped that would happen soon, as she wasn't a fan of the austere room. Her eyes skipped over the bed, the nightstand, the closet, the dresser, the bathroom door… It had all the basics, but no warmth. Self-control, something she prided herself on, was the only thing that prevented her from telling him to pack up because she was taking him home with her. It had nothing to do with logic. Logic told her to just spit out the facts so they could deal with them and move on. She was deaf to logic.

"What happened to you while you were gone? Where were you?" It wasn't until she asked the question that she realized just how brightly her desire to know burned. She was feeling so many different things all at once, had been since she'd laid eyes on him on the bridge, but underlying all of those feelings was curiosity. Why hadn't he come home? Where was he? How was he here now? Why wasn't he there when she needed him? When they _all _needed him? _All _the times they'd needed him? He might have felt betrayed, but she felt abandoned. She needed to know he _hadn't_ abandoned her. That he really couldn't be with her. That his sudden reappearance really was as sudden as it seemed and he hadn't just been flying under the radar all that time while she hoped against all odds that he was still alive somewhere.

He stared at her, silently daring her to stop studying her painfully uninteresting surroundings and look at him. It was only when he realized that, with her stubborn streak, this could very well turn into a game of Uncle, that he decided that he wanted to hear her story badly enough to give in, even though he couldn't tell her much. "It's classified—"

She finally swung around to look at him. Her face was filled with incredulity.

He shook his head and continued. "So I can't really get into _specifics_. I was on a mission that went south. I was detained for a while, but…" Frowning, he was the one to turn away this time. No matter how long after that particular encounter these words are read, the majority of his thoughts at that moment in time would _still_ be too classified to be made public. Thoughts about his incarceration, his attempted escapes, the punishments received for failed attempts… Thoughts about dark years during which she was his enduring beacon of light. At moments when his despair was so heavy its weight crushed him as effectively as the hunger pain he often suffered from, he heard her voice. Smelled her shampoo. Felt her hand in his. Tasted her after-breakfast-smoothie-flavored lips. Saw her beautiful face. She took over all five of his senses and kept him sane. Kept him alive. He knew she wasn't really there, enveloping him in love, but she was out there and he had to get to where she was. He had to believe he'd get back to her.

"Sam?" She had not only moved closer, but she'd also stepped around to peer into his face.

He exhaled as her voice pulled him back into the present. Where his senses really were consumed by her. The bitter taste of disappointment clung to his tongue. Pangs of betrayal probed painfully at his heart. The scent of her shampoo tantalized his nostrils, still the same familiar scent. The sound of her voice, the same husky voice, danced along his ear canals. The sight of her barely-changed face still made his tormented heart skip a beat. "Sorry. I just…what was I saying?"

"Don't…forget I asked," she released him then from any obligation to answer to her for anything that had happened during his disappearance. She'd seen all she needed to know in his eyes. In the face that had aged a decade in the space of a few fleeting seconds. If he could have come home sooner, he would have. She believed that. She still wondered. She still had questions. She simply decided not to voice them. If he wanted to talk to her about it someday, he would and she would listen, no matter how much the words hurt. She had no doubt in her mind that hearing the words would hurt. Maybe not physically, but in her heart, her soul, it would hurt. Just knowing he'd suffered so much for long was enough to make her want to cry…and she wasn't a woman given to tears or being over emotional. He just made her feel things so strongly…

They fell into an awkward silence. He waited for her to say something. She tried to think of the right way to say what she wanted, _needed_, to say. Deciding there really was no good way to tell a man something he should have found out over three years ago, Jules suggested, "Maybe you should sit down. Actually, you know what? You should. Sit." She waited for him to follow her dictate, and then proceeded to start pacing. "Even before you went M.I.A., I left messages. Everyone left messages. I wanted to tell you…I would have…"

It suddenly clicked, and then his stomach plummeted to the floor. His bafflement at seemingly phantom messages was forgotten. What started as a faint buzz in his ears quickly grew to a dull roar. His mouth was too dry for him to swallow. Working up enough saliva for the action took effort, but he managed it. He managed it a second time in order to speak. "You were pregnant?" The words were hushed. Awestruck.

She stopped pacing, stopped trying to get the words out, and looked at him in surprise. "With twins," she confirmed. Then she expounded on her response, "Barely. I must have conceived _days _before…well…before you left."

"Do you have pictures?"

"Yeah." Normally there would have been a 'duh' implied in her tone. No proud mother left the house without photos of her children handy. People tended to require proof that yours were the cutest babies ever if you made the claim. At the present, the inflections that would have livened up her tone would have taken more of an effort than she cared to exert. She had to expend her energy wisely. She pulled her phone out of her pocket and handed it to him. They were her wallpaper.

He stared down at the blonde-haired, brown-eyed miniature beings captured mid-laugh. His nose. Her smile. They were on the beach. Water covered their feet. Their bathing suits were wet. So was their hair. His was too long, it had fallen into his eyes. She was reaching for him, why, he didn't know. He wasn't there, so he couldn't say. He didn't know what she'd said or what he'd said. Didn't know whether he'd slipped beyond her reach. Didn't know who was faster or who'd been walking longer. Hadn't watched either child's first steps or heard their first words. Their first breaths had been breathed without him present to bear witness to the event. Jules' natural radiance would have glowed even brighter than usual every time one of them kicked, and he hadn't been there to see or feel. The picture was too blurred for him to determine whether either of them had inherited the birthmark on Jules' lip. He didn't even know their _names_.

He didn't become aware of the warm wetness creating twin trails down his cheeks until he felt Jules' hand on his shoulder. When he did, he hung his head in a half-hearted attempt to hide the crying he couldn't stop. The show of emotion was as embarrassing for him as it was therapeutic. He couldn't even remember the last time he had shed so much as a tear. Now he cried for the past three years, seven months, and twenty-seven days and all that they entailed. The stolen moments, the suffered moments. For who he had always thought he would be to his children, who he actually _was _to them. As the crying teetered into sobbing, he felt her arms band around his shoulders, urging him to lean into her. His head rested against her stomach and one of his hands anchored her in place as though it had forgotten that it was Jules, and that Jules would never move a muscle until he was ready.

Jules offered as much comfort as she knew he was capable of allowing right then by patiently holding him while he expelled some of his pain. Inwardly, she dreaded having to continue the conversation because he was already feeling so much, but she knew she couldn't pull any punches. He had to know it all.

"Tell me about them," he said once he'd regain some of his control. He didn't pull away from her, yet.

"I will."

"Now. Please."

"I will. I'll tell you everything about Ryan and Bianca."


End file.
